


the crowds went wild

by smartalli



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, MLB!AU, baseball!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11535834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartalli/pseuds/smartalli
Summary: Major League Baseball!AUHarvey is one of the game's best pitchers.Mike is an up and coming catcher.And he's just been traded to Harvey's team.





	the crowds went wild

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on tumblr. You can find me there at [crazyassmurdererwall](http://crazyassmurdererwall.tumblr.com)

“What the _hell_ , Joe?”

Harvey bursts into the GM’s office past a protesting secretary and Joe Fish stands, says, “ _No_ , Harvey. I don’t have time for your bullshit today.”

But Harvey stands firm and Joe finally sighs in exasperation and waves his secretary out of the room. Harvey watches her go, watches her shut the door behind her before he turns and says, “You traded Chris to _Cleveland_.”

“Yeah…I did. I know your primadonna ass refused to throw to anyone else these past few years, but _get over it_. As of today, you’ve got a new catcher.”

“Chris is a great catcher.”

He scoffs. “He’s above average at best. But he couldn’t hit for shit, and we’re in the middle of a pennant race.” 

“It’s _May_.”

“We’re _always_ in middle of a damn pennant race.” He points his finger at Harvey. “You are not above the needs of this team. In case you forgot, we’re trying to win a damn World Series here. And Chris is a nice guy, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to get us there.” 

“And Mike Ross is?”

Joe shakes his head at him, disbelief clear on his face. “He’s hitting over three hundred this year as an everyday catcher, his pitch-framing is second only to Posey’s, and he gets his damn knees down in the dirt every time. Plus he’s a goddamn joy in the clubhouse and the press are gonna love this kid. Get on board, Harvey. I don’t give a shit how long you’ve been with this team, I _will_ trade your ass if I need to.”

“You can’t trade my ass, Joe. I have a no-trade clause.”

Joe circles around to behind his desk. “Well, then I’ll move you to the disabled list for the rest of the season and you can ride the pine. It shouldn’t be too difficult to come up with an injury. Shoulder strain, maybe?”

Harvey presses his lips together and looks away, out through the window overlooking the currently empty field, bright green grass stretching out all the way to the wall, to the empty bleachers.

Joe sighs, the fight gone. “Give Ross a chance, Harvey. I went down and watched this kid myself. He’s the real deal.”

Harvey just nods.

“He might surprise you.”

+

Harvey watches from the chair in front of his locker as Mike Ross is escorted in by a member of the PR team, David, huge San Diego Padres duffle hanging off his left shoulder. He grins and shakes hand after hand as Harvey’s teammates stand up to welcome him. When Rodriguez greets him in Spanish, Peña opens his mouth to translate, but Ross cuts him off, responding back in fluent Spanish, taking the both of them by happy surprise. They slap his back and bring him in for a sloppy group hug, and Ross laughs in response, agreeing to something with a repeated _sí, sí_.

Harvey raises an eyebrow, tosses the baseball in his hand up, catches it.

David leads Ross over to Harvey and the empty locker next to him, and encourages _Mike_ to drop his stuff in his new locker.

“And this is-”

He drops his bag on the ground and holds his hand out for Harvey to take. “Harvey Specter.” He grins. “My favorite pitcher.”

Harvey takes his hand and David smiles and says, “Mike, I’ll be back in about an hour to grab you for the press conference. Why don’t you get settled in?”

Mike nods and waits until David walks away before he drops into the chair in front of his locker.

Six hours ago, Chris’ stuff was hanging in that locker. His uniform, his mitts, about twelve half-used sticks of eye black, and the picture of his wife and daughter, smiling at Harvey whenever he turned his head to the left.

Mike leans into him, forearms on his knees. “Eight years ago I saw you throw your perfect game in person from the left field stands.” His eyes are big and bright, and he has a smile that seems permanently etched on his face. “I snuck out of school so I could watch you pitch. I never thought I’d ever get to catch you.”

Harvey stands. “Well, why wait? Show me what you’ve got.”

+

Another pitch breaks down into the dirt just before the plate and Mike slides his body over to follow the movement, drops down to his knees in the dirt and curls his shoulders to deaden the bounce of the ball as it rises up and hits him square in the middle of his chest protector. He throws the ball off to the side and pops back up into position behind the plate, holds up his mitt and waits for Harvey to throw the next pitch.

Harvey throws a curveball, follows through and watches as the ball curves beautifully through the air, cutting through the strike zone of an imaginary batter, landing in Mike’s mitt.

Harvey can just hear an imaginary umpire yelling _You’re out!_ from behind Mike as he stays in position for an extra few seconds, Harvey’s pitch perfectly framed on the outside corner. 

Harvey walks forward off of the practice mound toward Mike and Mike meets him halfway, pulling off his mask, taking off his mitt and stowing it under his arm.

“Okay.”

Mike tosses him the ball and he catches it. “Okay?”

“You’ll do.”

+

“Mike! Mike!”

Harvey watches from the back of the room as the reporters clamor to be granted the right to ask the first question. Mike sits in the middle of the table with a grin, bookended by the owner, by the GM, by their manager. David picks a reporter and he asks the most obvious question: how does it feel to get traded to the Yankees?

“Oh man, it’s…it’s the _Yankees_ , you know?”

The room laughs, and he grins.

“But I was also excited because I grew up here, and my grandmother still lives here. She raised me after my parents were killed when I was a kid, and it’s been hard being across the country from her. She’s my only family, and it feels good to be near her again. And then there’s Harvey Specter.”

There’s another chorus of soft laughter from the sea of reporters.

“He’s been my favorite pitcher since he threw a complete game in his debut against the Red Sox and held them to three hits and no runs. He’s one of the best pitchers of this generation, and I get to be his catcher. Every other catcher in the league would love to be in my position.”

The reporters start shouting over each other again, calling his name, and Harvey turns, walks out of the room.

+

Harvey wants to throw his curve but he doesn’t have the feel for it today, so he shakes off Mike again when he throws down three fingers. The bases are loaded and it’s only the second, Houston is threatening, and Altuve is up. He’s just about the last person Harvey wants to see up at the plate right now.

He shakes off Mike again and Mike gets up, calls time, and jogs out to the mound. 

“Why do you keep shaking me off?”

“You keep calling the curve. I don’t have the touch for it today.”

“That’s because you aren’t finishing your pitches. You’re hesitating.”

Harvey can see the umpire slowly making his way toward the mound from behind Mike’s shoulder and Mike must see the impatience in his eyes, because he says, “On the plane on the way over I spent every minute watching your highlights. I watched game after game, I followed pitch after pitch. There’s no one who knows you the way I do. Trust me. Throw the curve, and follow through.”

Mike nods and backs away just as the ump reaches the mound and Harvey walks to the back of the mound, picks up the rosin bag and tosses it up once in his hand before throwing it back on the ground. He wipes his hand off on the back of his thigh and gets into stance, looking in at Mike. He sees Mike and he sees the mitt, and he rocks back on his heel, winds up, and throws the curveball. He watches the pitch sail through the air, watches it slide and fall, watches it land with a thwack in Mike’s mitt.

“Strike three! You’re out!”

+

The plane is quiet and dark, except for the sounds of resounding snores coming from Henderson at the front of the plane. Harvey cues up a movie, pausing when he hears the quiet footsteps of someone coming up the aisle. When he looks up Mike is standing there with a smile, and he takes his bag off the seat and motions him down with a nod. Mike slides into the seat, angles his body toward Harvey.

His voice is hushed. “Everyone else is asleep.”

Harvey nods. “I’m almost always the only one awake on the late night flights. I’ve never been able to sleep on an airplane.”

“Usually I can, but I can’t seem to tonight. Still too worked up, I guess.”

“Three hours ago you went four for four, fell into the opposing dugout to make a catch, and caught Morris’ three hit shutout. Of course you’re still keyed up.”

He nods bashfully. “It was a pretty good day.”

Pretty good? Since Mike joined the team a month ago they’ve gone twenty and two and their team ERA is below one and a half. 

Harvey was wrong. And this time, he doesn’t mind admitting it.

“You’re incredible, Mike. And you’re the best catcher I’ve ever had. You’re a shoo-in for an All Star spot.”

His face is happy, hopeful as he slouches into his seat. “I’m the best catcher you’ve ever had?”

He nods slowly. “There’s no one I trust more.”

+

On the road, Harvey often finds himself out with Mike. They’re a pair, the way Rodriguez and Peña are, the way Morris and Henderson are, the way Jackson and Lopez are. They eat meals together and watch movies together and go to bars together. They go to museums. They almost always sit next to each other on the bench. Harvey used to be paired with Chris. Now he’s paired with Mike.

On nights when Harvey doesn’t have to pitch the next day, Mike usually gravitates to Harvey’s room and they stay up a little later than they probably should, watching TV or a movie, or just talking. Mike almost always falls asleep in Harvey’s bed there with him, and Harvey just shoves him over with an eye roll.

When they wake up and Mike is cuddled up to Harvey, or Harvey has an arm wrapped around him, or Harvey’s head is resting on Mike’s chest, neither of them says anything.

+

“You didn’t have to come, you know.”

Harvey rolls his eyes. “So you’ve said. Three times. If I didn’t want to meet your grandmother, Mike, I wouldn’t have come.”

Mike pushes open the door and smiles instantly when he sees the woman sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, a book open in her lap. He strides across the room and bends down to hug her. She returns it and when he pulls back she pats him on the chest and says, “Michael, that was some weak hitting last night.”

He sits down in the chair next to hers, her hand held in his, and says, “Grammy, I was facing Felix Hernandez. He has lowest ERA in the _league_ this season.”

“That’s no excuse to swing at a pitch in the dirt. I taught you better than that.”

Mike shakes his head. “Grammy, this is Harvey.”

Just _Harvey_ , not _Harvey Specter_ , as if Harvey is already a familiar enough part of their conversations that he doesn’t need to be introduced by two names. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Grammy takes Harvey’s offered hand. “You’re pitching this afternoon.”

“I am. You’ll get to see the both of us play in person today.”

She holds his hand there a moment, asks, “Have you been taking care of my boy?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says seriously.

“Good.” She nods, releases his hand. “And pay more attention to the runner at first. You’re practically letting them _walk_ into second.”

Mike sputters. “Grammy!”

Harvey just laughs.

+

“A fucking _no hitter_ , Harvey!” Mike yells, pounds his fists against the wall next to Harvey’s front door in triumph and Harvey grins as he unlocks his front door, grabs Mike’s shirt in his fist and shoves him inside. Mike lets him happily, twirls around, his head tipped back as he walks into the main room of Harvey’s condo. “You threw a _no hitter_. And I got to catch it!”

The excitement still hasn’t worn off, not even after interview after interview after interview, followed by a press conference, with the local reporters, with ESPN, with MLB Tonight. 

Harvey pours two glasses of Scotch and walks over, hands one to Mike. “You called an incredible game, Mike. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

When the final pitch sailed into Mike’s mitt and landed with a decisive _thwap_ , Mike had stood and thrown his mask off, eyes wide and grin so big it took over his entire face. He ran up to the pitcher’s mound and Harvey spread is arms wide, threw his glove away, and held on with a laugh as Mike jumped into his arms and whispered, in the few moments before they were surrounded by the rest of their teammates in one giant mass hug, _you’re amazing. You’re incredible._

“You threw the pitches.”

“You called the game. And I didn’t shake you off once, you might recall.”

Mike bows his head, bashful, as color starts to come to his cheeks.

“So it’s customary for a pitcher who throws a no-hitter to give his catcher a gift as a thank you.” Mike lifts his head, looks at him. “Anything you might want?”

Mike seems to think for a moment, eyes dancing across Harvey’s face before he breaches the space between them and kisses him.

When Harvey doesn’t immediately respond, Mike backs off, panic on his face, and says, “God, Harvey. I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry_ …I…”

He sets the glass down on the table roughly and turns to leave, but Harvey sets his own glass down, grabs Mike’s arm, and pulls him back, resting his hands on Mike’s face as he pulls their mouths together and kisses Mike deep and long. 

When he pulls back Mike is looking at him with something close to wonder, and Harvey says, softly, “Okay.”

A little breathless, Mike says, “Okay?”

Harvey smiles, soft and fond as his eyes track down to Mike’s mouth and back up to his eyes, his hands still braced on the sides of Mike’s face. 

“You’ll do.”


End file.
